Kreacher
by Empress Empoleon
Summary: A day in the life of Kreacher. / Kreacher doesn't like working at Hogwarts.


Kreacher shuffles around the kitchen, his morning attitude written all over his face in the form of an angry frown that almost droops off his face.

He's never been a morning elf; no, in fact, he's used to waking up mid-morning with his old mistress, and his old master Regulus. He would have quite liked to continue his morning routine as well, but the bustle of the Hogwarts kitchens simply did not allow that.

"This is all _Master_ Potter's fault,"he mumbles to himself incoherently, dragging his feet over to a large basin to wash some plates for breakfast.

Harry Potter. He's quite the nasty fellow in Kreacher's mind; probably because he is almost like a Sirius reborn. True, he's not nearly as horrible in treating him as Sirius was, probably because he had that filthy Mudblood girl around spewing some nonsense about good treatment towards him but still, if he had cared at all he certainly would have kept him in peace and not put him to work with all of these other House Elves who didn't seem to possess any self-respect.

"Hullo, Kreacher!" The House Elf next to him squeaks; Kreacher doesn't even remember him, but apparently they know him.

He simply nods at them. He doesn't want to socialize with these other scum; for all he knows, their past master might have been Muggle-borns.

The other House Elf seems to be waiting for a response. Kreacher isn't going to give him the satisfaction of having one. Eventually the other House Elf turns back to the plates, seeming a bit disgruntled by his neighbor's odd attitude.

It's not his attitude though.

It's his personality.

* * *

Cooking has never been a personal favorite of Kreacher. He's always liked cleaning more; the overwhelming feeling of satisfaction when a vase is brushed clean or scrubbing the floors so shiny he can see his own reflection staring back.

That is why Kreacher opts for dormitory cleaning after breakfast is over.

Once the first class has started, Kreacher, along with a few others, slip out of the kitchens to clean up the House dormitories. Kreacher's job is Slytherin boys, only because he refused to take any other House due to blood purity issues.

Once inside the dungeons, a wave of comfort always washed over him. He had never been to hogwarts, but just knowing that in these very same rooms, his Mistress and his Master Regulus had walked and talked made him happy.

He could feel their presence if he stood still and silenced his breathing. Sometimes he heard them on the couch, other times in front of the cold fireplace, their bare feet tingling on the stony cold dungeon floors.

He would routinely walk up to the rooms, slowly and meticulously putting away the dirty clothes and making their beds. (It seemed as though the Crabbe and Goyle boys were the two slobs; Malfoy and Zabini were good enough while Nott was always squeaky clean.)

After the thorough cleaning his legs would hurt, so he would sit down in one of the corners and take a breather.

House elves aren't supposed to take breaks. However, he was old and he feared his legs buckling on the stairs if he didn't rest, so he made sure not to overexxert himself.

_Of course, a horrible Master like _Harry Potter_ wouldn't understand that, _Kreacher thought to himself. _No, he only thinks about himself, just like young _Sirius Black_._

He scorns the name in his head.

_Sirius Black._

He was quite undeserving of the surname.

* * *

Nooks and crannies have always appealed to Kreacher. Their dark, yet cozy atmosphere always called to him, so in times of stress or exhaustion or even just boredom he would sit in a corner and contemplate.

The only good thing about Hogwarts, in his opinion, other than seeing the Slytherin dormitories and helping other young Purebloods like his late Master and Mistress, were the overwhelming amount of hiding spots.

Wherever he went, there was always some dark corner, some shady bend where he could spend his time in.

After eating lunch in the kitchens as fast as he can, he would rush out of there to find his favorite humble spot-the corner at the beginning of the dungeon corridor.

He would sit there for a long time, until it was time for dinner preparations. Nobody ever got mad at him for slacking off, probably because they didn't remember him, so he was able to sit there for hours at a time.

He didn't have a way to pass the time, only knowing the hour had passed when a burst of students would emerge from the doors to switch classes.

The corner is wet and slimy, permanently filthy from years of neglect and student's dirty feet walking over it. It isn't anything pretty.

It reminds Kreacher of himself.

So it is in that corner when he lets his mask chip and fall.

He's an _old _House-elf. And his age has not been so kind to him; he has seen things and heard things that he wish he hadn't.

The shadows of his former masters haunt him in the dark.

* * *

He comes back to help with dinner preparations, always just the same old, grumpy House-elf as before.

He doesn't have any friends in the kitchens; he doesn't want any either.

"Kreacher!" Dobby squeaks, coming to stand next to him. "Aren't you happy, cooking for a feast?"

"No, no, NO!" Kreacher yells in broken speech, because _no, _he is not happy, and he is not a low-level House-elf to just grovel at the feet of someone like Harry Potter, friend of Muggle-borns.

"Respect Harry Potter, Kreacher!" Dobby was always quick to defend the boy; it was one of his only weaknesses. "He was kind to let you stay here, instead of all alone at your old place!"

"I would rather be at my old place, with no work and just tending to my old mistress! Is that too much to ask?" Kreacher screams. "Oh, Mistress Black, how I miss you. You wouldn't believe where I am now. You'd be appalled, the Black family House-elf forced to work here, feeding all sorts of impure students..."

Everything happens for a reason. What had he ever done to deserve _this _horrible life?

Kreacher drops to his knees onto the stony kitchen floor and begins to rock back and forth, holding his head in his hands.

Dobby exchanged a look, and few elves bring him to the side, letting him lie in a corner.

"He's new still," they say. "He'll be all right in the morning."

Kreacher dreams of his home.

* * *

A/N: Um, Kreacher. Yay.

_Done for:_

_Quidditch Finals Round 1 (Prompts: Everything happens for a reason; "Is that too much to ask?"; feast)_


End file.
